


By Any Other Name

by electricshoebox



Series: A Line in the Sand Series [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Acting Out a Fantasy, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Flirting, M/M, MacCready's fetish for Deacon in leather pants, Making Out, Pretending to Be Strangers, Roleplay, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: The thing is, he hadn’t actually expected Deacon to take him up on the idea in the first place. MacCready hadn’t even meant to say it. Not out loud. Yeah, sure, he’d had the fantasy. Was he supposed to watch Deacon pull off his disguises piece by piece night after night andnotfantasize about what it would be like?MacCready and Deacon pretend to be strangers meeting up in the Third Rail. Deacon pulls out all the stops.(Takes place in the ALITS universe but can be read independently.)
Relationships: Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready
Series: A Line in the Sand Series [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931980
Comments: 28
Kudos: 98





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hurdlelocker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurdlelocker/gifts).



> So this is a little birthday gift for the lovely **hurdlelocker**. Thank you for sharing your enthusiasm for this ship and always being so great and encouraging! I hope you like it. I tried writing something from MacCready's perspective this time around, since I've been in Deacon's head for so long. 
> 
> I think of this as taking place in the near future of the same universe as my longform fic _A Line in the Sand_ (which I promise is getting an update very soon), but it can be read completely stand-alone. All you need to know is these nerds are in love. They are relatively early on in the relationship here, maybe only a couple months into officially dating (not really relevant but fun facts).
> 
> Thanks as always to **serenityfails** for the beta read. Title is, as you may have guessed, taken from Shakespeare.

MacCready drums his fingers on the neck of his beer bottle, once and then again. The soft clink of his fingertips hitting the glass is lost under the bright brass band music filling the bar, and the low hum of conversation around him. MacCready twists his wrist, checking his watch. Four minutes to eight. His fingers tap the bottle again. He presses the sole of his boot to the bottom rung of his stool and bounces his knee. 

The Third Rail’s not really crowded, not on a Tuesday night. He nudges the brim of his hat higher with one bent knuckle and looks out over the room. A few full tables: one near the stage, the other behind him. A couple on the couch with their heads bent close, their hands brushing. An old man three stools down from MacCready’s in a coat that doesn’t fit, bobbing his head to the music. He sees them all like buoys in a dark sea of empty chairs. No one he recognizes. No one who recognizes him. 

MacCready takes another steadying sip of beer. The string of subway lights swooping across the ceiling sways a little above him in time with his knee, cutting the shadows with a jittery candlewick bronze. He checks his watch again. Three minutes to eight. He scowls at the watch face. How does Deacon make this crap look so easy? 

He needs a smoke. That ought to keep his hands busy, at least. He fishes through the pouch strapped to his thigh and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. There’s a lighter tucked in alongside, snatched from a desk drawer in the old bank building he’d spent the afternoon clearing out. Raiders, this time. He’s got a hundred caps’ worth of Hangman’s Alley’s gratitude tucked into his pack back at the Rexford, and a gold-plated lighter that’s actually in working condition. He slips a cigarette between his lips and flicks his thumb over the sparkwheel, cupping his hand around the flame. Warmth fills his lungs, settling over his nerves like a blanket. He tips his head back, sending smoke curling into the air above him, and forces his knee still long enough to slip the lighter back into the pouch. 

He can do this. He can. It was his stupid idea, after all, and Deacon had asked him about fifty times if he was sure, and he _was_. He is. As long as Hancock doesn’t suddenly get thirsty, and Daisy doesn’t stroll in, and Charlie stays on the other side of the bar, and— 

One minute to eight. He pinches the end of the cigarette between two fingers and pulls it free, exhaling slowly. A hazy cloud of smoke coils around his head. Magnolia’s voice vaults into a high note, and through the haze he sees the spotlight catch her dress as she leans back into it. Her hand drags slowly through the air as she holds the note. Then she cuts herself off with a flourish of her fingers, and the music with her. She looks out at the crowd, smiling, nodding along with the applause. She starts to step down off the stage, and the spotlight clicks off. MacCready pushes the cigarette back between his teeth and claps. 

“Got a light?” 

MacCready jumps, head whipping around. Someone’s standing right at his side. Someone in a snug leather jacket, and leather pants that cling to his calves, and a very familiar pair of dark sunglasses. He’s holding up a fresh cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, waving it a little, and his eyebrows lift. MacCready slowly relaxes. He digs out his lighter again and holds it up.

Deacon leans down, touching the tip of his cigarette to the flame. His head angles so MacCready can see his eyes over the rim of his sunglasses. He holds MacCready’s gaze a moment, and winks. 

Then he straightens, taking a drag. “Thanks. This seat taken?” 

“Help yourself,” MacCready says.

Deacon slides onto the bar stool in one long, frustratingly smooth motion. How does he manage to make climbing on a stool look fluid? In leather pants, no less? He’s dimly aware of Deacon waving down Charlie, but he can’t take his eyes off Deacon’s thighs. 

“Long day?” 

MacCready snaps his gaze back up. Right. Focus up. Play along. “I—yeah. Yeah, just got off a job. That obvious?” 

Deacon pushes the shades higher, and MacCready can see his own wobbly reflection in them. Deacon takes a long drag, turning his head, but MacCready still feels his eyes. He knows he’s being read. 

Deacon does this. A lot. Sometimes he looks at MacCready like he’s a radio, like if he twists the right dial and flips the right switch, he’ll tune right into MacCready’s thoughts. Like the way MacCready’s eyebrow twitches or the way his… pinky finger bends, or something, is going to tell Deacon everything. Deacon squints and stares behind those stupid shades and sometimes, it makes MacCready want to rip them off his face and yell, “Just _ask_ me what I’m thinking, you idiot!” 

But, okay, other times… it’s nice. When Deacon just seems to know, and adapt, and doesn’t ask MacCready to explain himself. Like now: he can’t ask, not really, not without giving the game away. So instead, he tips his head a little lower and says, “I know I’m just a stranger, so feel free to tell me to fuck off, but you look like you could use a distraction.” 

It’s an out. One last chance. If MacCready just grumbles something like “none of your business,” Deacon will nod, and smile, and find somewhere else to sit. They’ll meet in the alley, and they’ll walk to the Rexford, and Deacon might rib him, just a little, but that will be that. He’ll let it go. MacCready knows he’ll let it go. 

The thing is, he hadn’t actually expected Deacon to take him up on the idea in the first place. MacCready hadn’t even meant to say it. Not out loud. Yeah, sure, he’d had the fantasy. Was he supposed to watch Deacon pull off his disguises piece by piece night after night and _not_ fantasize about what it would be like? And listen, he can’t be held responsible for the things he blurts out when Deacon’s hand is sliding up his leg and Deacon’s lips are dragging down his neck, anyway. 

Still, Deacon had pulled out all the stops for this. He knows how MacCready feels about those leather pants. And he’s wearing his black pompadour wig, the one that catches the light from the sign above them, and keeps the hair swept back from Deacon’s face. MacCready likes him best without a wig at all, but if he had to pick a favorite, it would be this one. He’s pretty sure Deacon knows that, too. 

He’s even putting on an accent. Or, well, sinking into his natural one, the one he’d told MacCready he’d trained himself out of. The one that still slides out on _really_ good nights, when he falls back panting on the sheets under MacCready’s hands and can barely string two words together anyway. MacCready’s favorite nights.

Deacon’s doing this on purpose.

Well. MacCready’s never backed down from a challenge in his life. He’s not about to start now. 

He takes another drink from his beer and then sets the bottle down with a resolved thump. He lets his eyes slide slowly up Deacon’s body, boot to collar. He smiles, just a little, when he makes it back to Deacon’s shades, glinting in the low light. “Yeah, all right, _stranger_. After the day I had? I’ll take a distraction.” 

Deacon doesn’t even break character to nod, just raises his eyebrows again. Game on. “That must have been some job.” He leans back, ducking his chin, and considers. “You don’t look like a trader, carrying all those bullets around, and you don’t smell like brahmin, so I’m guessing you’re not a caravan guard either.” 

The side of MacCready’s mouth tugs up. He wonders if this is what Deacon did the first time he saw him. He’s still never gotten a straight answer about when that was. He shifts his cigarette to his off hand and leans his chin on the heel of his palm. “Okay, keep going, then. What am I?” 

Deacon grins again. He wraps his fingers around a glass MacCready hadn’t even seen Charlie put down. He gives MacCready a leering once-over of his own, and MacCready tries not to roll his eyes. 

“Well, like I said, not shy with the bullets. You’re clearly well-equipped — binoculars, pouches, sturdy shoes. You see a lot of travel. And it sees a lot of you.” He darts a pointed glance toward the fraying shoulder of MacCready’s coat. “Torn duster, torn pants, hasty fix. So if you’ve got a boss to impress, it’s not via your wardrobe.” 

MacCready does roll his eyes this time. Always finding some way to pick on the damn duster. MacCready _likes_ his duster, he’s worn it in just the right way, and fu—forget the sleeve, he does just fine without it, thanks. Deacon’s just sore he can’t stare at MacCready’s ass when he wears it.

“Could be a scavenger,” Deacon continues after he takes another drag, “but you mentioned a job. I’m going to go with... mercenary.” 

It’s almost irritating how hot that is. That Deacon can just _do_ that, just look at people and pick out details in seconds that MacCready doesn’t notice at all, and then just know things about them. MacCready fights down a grin, trying to look bored instead. He forces himself to ignore the heat lazily pooling in his gut. Mostly so it doesn’t turn his ears pink, like it always does when he’s flustered. According to Deacon. 

“Not hard to get all of that from travel gear and spare ammo,” MacCready says, barely keeping his voice flat. 

Deacon shrugs. “You asked.”

Nothing in his expression changes. He keeps his features carefully neutral. It took MacCready some time (and yeah, okay, a lot of staring) to realize that the times when Deacon schooled his face like that were the times he most wanted to react to something. The jab had landed. MacCready takes a drag and watches him, feeling a little smug. 

“Is people-watching what you do for a living, Mister—?” 

“James,” Deacon says. “No ‘mister.’ Jimmy, to my friends.”

MacCready lets smoke billow from his lips into the room beyond. “Are we friends, Jimmy?”

“Can’t say I wouldn’t like to be,” Deacon says. The smirk is back. He casually swirls his drink. 

Another tune starts up suddenly over the speakers, loud and upbeat. MacCready sees the glittering red of Magnolia’s dress over Deacon’s shoulder as she sways in front of the microphone stand. MacCready leans a little closer so his voice carries over the music. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“You’re not gonna guess?” Deacon says. “Fair’s fair.”

MacCready’s eyes flick up. Deacon just watches him back, taking a lazy sip of his drink. Whiskey, it looks like. It’s always whiskey. _All right_ , MacCready thinks. _Bring it on._ He narrows his eyes as he takes in the outfit again. “Well, Jimmy, you obviously like leather.”

Deacon coughs out a laugh, barely swallowing in time. MacCready gives him a small smile, and lets his gaze wander back to where the jacket stretches over Deacon’s chest.

“Tight leather isn't great for traveling, though. Not much dirt on it, either. If you’re armed—and you’re an idiot if you’re in Goodneighbor and you’re not—it’s under the jacket. That’s the only thing leaving anything to the imagination.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“It’s a compliment,” MacCready says. “So, I’m thinking you’re close to home. But you’ve got some muscle on you. Which means if you’re a trader, it’s in something you could get in a fight over. And you wouldn’t leave that unattended to come here. But you still need a reason to look intimidating.” 

MacCready draws his cigarette back to his lips. “I’m thinking... bodyguard.” 

The corner of Deacon’s mouth slowly lifts, an unconscious imitation of MacCready’s expression from earlier. He reaches up like he’s adjusting the shades, and pulls them down a little. He looks genuinely impressed. MacCready had wondered if he wouldn’t just roll with whatever suggestion he got, but that look says MacCready actually hit the mark. He gives Deacon a cocky grin as he pulls the cigarette away again, letting the smoke drift from his nose this time. _Yeah. That’s right. Got you_.

“Very nice,” Deacon says, still sounding surprised. “I’m, uh, usually in Diamond City, but it’s, uh, my night off.”

It‘s canned, rehearsed, but it doesn’t come out as smooth as he thinks Deacon means for it to. God, nothing gives MacCready a rush quite like throwing Deacon off his game. MacCready digs his teeth into the back of his lip as Deacon pushes the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

“Guess that makes it my lucky night, then,” MacCready says, reaching for his beer without breaking eye contact. He might be preening. A little. So shoot him.

“Is that so?” Deacon leans a little closer. “I don’t even know your name, handsome.”

“MacCready. Robert MacCready. RJ, to my friends.”

Deacon wets his lips. “Are we friends, RJ?”

MacCready looks at him for a moment, then lets his voice pitch low. “Can’t say I wouldn’t like to be.” 

Deacon gives him another heated smile. He props his elbow on the counter, perching his cigarette in the air. “So, come here often?” 

MacCready snorts. “Does that line ever actually work for anyone?” 

“You tell me.” 

MacCready rolls his eyes again, and takes one last drag before stubbing his cigarette out. “I’m here enough. Depends on the night.” 

“Right, right, you’re a busy guy,” Deacon says. “World traveler.” 

MacCready scoffs. “Not really. I just get around a lot. What about you? You like Diamond City?”

“It’s fine, I guess. Little rich for my blood, but then I have to spend a lot of time in the Upper Stands.” 

“So, what, you come here to slum it with the rest of us dirtballs on your day off?” 

Deacon laughs. “Well, not gonna say the company isn’t a lot better. Or that I don’t like an excuse to get my hands dirty.” 

He draws out the last word, eyes lingering on MacCready’s hands. MacCready taps his fingers on his beer bottle again, without the cigarette to occupy them. It’s not nerves buzzing under his skin this time. “You must have some interesting stories, at least.” 

“Probably not half as interesting as what you’ve got. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Deacon flicks his eyebrows up. 

MacCready sits up. He knocks back the rest of his beer, letting Deacon get an eyeful of his throat working. Then he sets the bottle down and pushes it away. “All right. Little loud in here, though. How about we talk somewhere quieter?” 

He gets to his feet without waiting for an answer. He digs out a bag of caps and leaves it on the bar. Then he leans down, angling his head so the brim of his hat will swing out of the way, and whispers right into Deacon’s ear, “Room 2.” 

He weaves his way across the room, shifting between tables and around one of the couches. He climbs the stairs without looking back.

\----

He’s not pacing. He’s not. He just can’t decide where he wants to put his hat. Or his binoculars. Or his shoes. That’s all. He finally just heaves himself down on the old, springy bed and starts plucking at the laces of his boots. He tosses his hat on the nightstand, making the little lamp with the beaded shade rattle and scatter tinted shadows around the room. He leaves the binoculars next to it. His pack is already tucked under the bed, and he’d left his rifle by the door earlier. 

How long can it possibly take to pay up and walk across the street?

MacCready tugs his scarf looser under his collar, already growing hot beneath it. He’s holding off on removing it, because he knows Deacon loves undressing him, loves taking apart all the layers MacCready wears. But if he’s going to keep him waiting, then MacCready’s just going to get started without him. Jerk. 

MacCready’s in the middle of pulling off the last of the ammo belts around his thigh when a soft knock finally comes, in the rhythm they use on stakeouts. Finally. MacCready throws the belt into the corner and stands. When he opens the door, Deacon’s leaning on the doorframe, carefully posed with one arm crooked over his head, one foot folded over the other, and his shades low on his nose. He turns his head, cutting a look up at MacCready and waggling his eyebrows. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Deacon says, still in the Boston accent, but letting his voice scrape in his throat.

MacCready rolls his eyes and grabs him by the collar of his leather jacket. “Get in here, you idiot.”

“You sweet talk all your hookups like that?” Deacon says, grinning as he lets himself be pulled inside. “You’re a real romantic, RJ—”

MacCready nudges the door shut with his foot, refusing to let go of Deacon’s lapel, even as he ends up awkwardly swinging them around. “Yeah, yeah, all right, game over.”

Deacon laughs as MacCready yanks him closer. He winds his arms around MacCready’s waist. “You should let me drag it out a little next time. I had all sorts of plans. The anticipation is the best part, Bobby.”

Hearing the nickname in Deacon’s normal voice makes that slowly-building heat under MacCready’s collar flare over his chest. Or maybe that was the idea of _next time_. He reaches up to push Deacon’s shades onto the crown of his head, and then cups his jaw. 

“No one’s ever accused me of being patient,” MacCready says, and pulls Deacon down into a kiss.

It turns filthy almost immediately. MacCready drags his teeth over Deacon’s lip and then licks into his mouth. Deacon curls his tongue around MacCready’s, his arms tightening. _So, not so unaffected after all, Mr. Cool._ He slides his hand down to press against Deacon’s neck, so he can feel Deacon’s pulse hammering against his palm. God, he lives for these little tells. He’s worked hard to find them. Deacon can control his face all he likes. He can spin whatever story he wants. His heartbeat never lies. 

MacCready pulls away with a gasp at that thought. He stays close, letting their noses touch, their breath mingle. He smells whiskey and beer, smoke and leather. He opens his eyes just enough to see the blurred curve of Deacon’s cheek.

“Hi,” he says softly. He feels Deacon’s smile brush his lips. 

“Hey, you,” Deacon whispers back. He kisses MacCready again, brief but wet, and hungry. 

MacCready leans forward to chase Deacon’s lips when he pulls back. Deacon chuckles, low in his throat. Sparks shoot down through MacCready’s arms at the sound. MacCready mouths at his jaw instead, and his hands skim down over Deacon’s shoulders to find the zipper of his jacket.

“You really are eager, huh?” Deacon says, like he’s not panting already, like he’s not reaching for the buttons over MacCready’s stomach in turn. 

“You made me stare at you in those pants for half an hour when I couldn’t even touch you,” MacCready murmurs into the skin in front of Deacon’s ear. He unzips the jacket and pushes at it.

“This was your idea,” Deacon says. The last word hitches on a gasp when MacCready nips at his earlobe. 

MacCready gives the jacket another pointed tug. “The outfit was all you.” 

Deacon leaves MacCready’s duster hanging open and steps back, dropping the jacket on the floor. “Yeah, and you like it.” He grins, slow and wicked, and then crowds close, coaxing MacCready backward until he hits the wall. Deacon buries his hands in MacCready’s unraveling scarf. 

“I love it,” MacCready says, angling for another kiss. 

Deacon only wore a tight t-shirt under the jacket, tucked into his pants. MacCready glides his hands down the back of it as Deacon moans into his mouth. MacCready’s fingers brush up against the grip of Deliverer where it sits against Deacon’s spine. He moves his hands to either side of it and sinks them beneath Deacon’s waistband, teasing the strip of skin just beneath the hem of his shirt. 

Deacon hums his approval, and MacCready feels the vibration of it against his tongue. He digs his fingers in to push Deacon’s hips flush against his. Deacon’s leg falls between MacCready’s. He ducks out of the kiss to suck in a shaky breath. 

“God, Bobby,” he rasps. He parts the scarf to bare the skin of MacCready’s throat. “You’re so fucking hot. Almost jumped you right there in the bar when you nailed the disguise.” 

“I figured you’d just humor me,” MacCready says, “but then you looked at me and—oh, _god_.” 

Deacon licks a stripe near the base of MacCready’s throat, cutting off his words. “Wasn’t humoring you,” Deacon mumbles into a kiss at the dip of MacCready’s collar bone. “God, you were so good.”

“Deacon,” MacCready groans, rutting his hips against Deacon’s thigh and making them both gasp. He slides his hands back up until he can sink his fingers into the hair of Deacon’s wig. “I—I want—” 

Deacon trails kisses up his neck. “Yeah, Bobby. Tell me. What do you want?” 

MacCready tightens his grip. He pulls the wig off, and the sunglasses, and throws them both to the floor. 

“You.”

Deacon raises his head, and for a long moment, they just look at each other. MacCready takes in Deacon’s face: the long line of his nose, the gentle arch of his cheekbones, the tiny, pale surgery scars hidden near his ears and beneath his nostrils. The white-blue of his eyes. _There you are_ , MacCready thinks, curling his hand over Deacon’s jaw. Yeah, the stranger fantasy was good, but it was good because this was waiting underneath it.

Deacon sinks forward, and MacCready leans up, and whatever space is left between them dissolves. The tenderness fades into need. The kiss is heated, artless, and a little frantic, and MacCready’s thoughts narrow down only to the taste of Deacon’s mouth, and how desperately he aches to touch Deacon’s skin. 

Somewhere in the middle of the kiss, his duster lands at his feet, and his scarf with it, and the pistol he’d brought to the Third Rail. He’s never been so grateful he hadn’t bothered with armor. He has enough presence of mind to pull Deliverer free and drop it away in turn, and then he shoves his hands under Deacon’s t-shirt, greedily sliding them over the planes of his back. He swallows Deacon’s sigh, rolling his hips forward again, a futile attempt to ease the growing pressure there. Deacon’s just as hard against his thigh, straining against the leather. 

Deacon finally tears himself away to pull his shirt up over his head. MacCready bites his swollen lip, letting his eyes travel down Deacon’s chest, over his stomach, to the light trail of red hair disappearing under his waistband. 

“So, how does the story end?” 

“Hmm?” MacCready looks back up to find Deacon watching him, eyes dark and lidded. MacCready lets his hands retrace the path his eyes had taken. 

Deacon gives a breathy little laugh that goes straight to MacCready’s groin. MacCready can feel Deacon’s stomach jump with it under his hands. “Your fantasy, Bobby. All of this. Tell me how it ends. Tell me what you want.” 

MacCready traces a contemplative circle over Deacon’s stomach, forcing himself to look back up. His voice is nearly all breath as he says, “I want—I want you to fuck me.” 

Deacon’s eyes shut, and he swallows heavily. MacCready knows what it does to him, to hear him swear in bed. Or, you know. Close enough to bed. He can’t really understand why, but he’s not about to pick it apart when all he needs to know is that it makes Deacon flush hot beneath his fingers. 

“Right here?” Deacon finally croaks out. And oh god, yeah that could be—really hot. He’d imagined it like that, right up against the wall, wrapping his legs around Deacon’s hips, letting him— “Because not to ruin the mood, but we’re probably both going to end up on the floor.” 

MacCready pinches his lips, the vision wiped away as fast as it had hit him. Well, fine, that was probably true, Deacon’s strong, but so is MacCready, and — yeah, crap, there goes that idea. 

MacCready sighs and grabs Deacon’s hand. “That’s quitter talk,” he says, but he leads Deacon to the bed anyway, dropping down on the edge. He pulls his shirt over his head without bothering with the buttons and tosses it away. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Deacon says, leaning down for a brief kiss. “You bring oil?” 

MacCready darts his eyes away, letting them land on Deacon’s waistband. He knows his face is probably reddening fast as he says, “Uh, yeah, but um… I may have already… prepped, a little.” 

MacCready ventures a glance back up to see Deacon’s eyes widen, and a completely delighted grin splits across his lips. “Bobby, you—really?” 

“I got here early,” MacCready mumbles, idly drawing his fingers over the leather stretched around Deacon’s thighs. He really hadn’t meant to blurt that one out either, but again, he still can’t be held responsible when Deacon’s bare abs are at mouth level.

Deacon’s grin doesn’t falter. He pushes MacCready back and climbs up to hover over him, reaching for the button of his pants. He leans his mouth down close to MacCready’s ear. “Were you thinking about this? About tonight?” 

MacCready nods, not trusting his voice as Deacon slips the button free. Instead of reaching for the zipper, though, he cups MacCready’s erection through the fabric, dragging the heel of his palm over it. MacCready leans up into his hand with a moan. 

“Jesus,” Deacon says, rubbing him slowly. “You fingered yourself thinking about what I’d wear? What I’d say?” 

MacCready bites back another moan and nods again. His fingers fist into the threadbare quilt spread out beneath him. Not really any point in denying it now.

“Holy shit,” Deacon murmurs. He finally unzips MacCready’s pants and crawls backward to tug them off. MacCready sighs with relief when his cock pulls free, curving up toward his stomach and already leaking. 

Deacon finds the oil MacCready had left on the nightstand and carries it back to the bed, tossing it down next to MacCready’s knee. He starts to undo his pants, and MacCready sits up quickly. 

“Wait,” he says, a little more urgently than he meant to. Deacon’s hands still. MacCready feels himself blushing again. “Uh, would you—leave them on?” 

Deacon’s smile is absolutely smug. Well, whatever, it wasn’t like he didn’t know MacCready had a thing for them, even if he hadn’t meant to, you know, broadcast it. God, how does he end up blabbing crap like this every time Deacon gets him naked? It’s unfair, when Deacon has so much ridiculous control over himself, and never lets anything slip he doesn’t mean to. Then again, that just makes it more fun to try and get him to snap. 

Deacon unzips the leather and pulls his cock free, letting the waist slide down his hips a little, but he doesn’t move to peel them off. MacCready can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. His throat goes dry as he follows the line of Deacon’s hips with his eyes, down to the familiar swell of his cock. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

Then Deacon’s pushing him back again, and swinging his knees up onto the mattress. MacCready forgets to put up even a token complaint when Deacon still insists on checking him over, because in moments his fingers are buried inside MacCready and it feels _incredible_. His body lights up from his shoulders to his feet, every nerve ending blazing to life as Deacon’s fingers curl. He arches up, choking out a curse. 

“Please,” he says, reaching blindly for any part of Deacon he can touch. “Fuck, please, want you—” 

“Anticipation,” Deacon says, sliding his fingers out and back in. MacCready’s breath punches out of him. 

“I’ve been— _ah_ —anticipating all day— _oh shit_ ,” MacCready says. 

“So I hear,” Deacon says, breathing out a heated little laugh. He pumps his fingers a few more times, slipping in a third, and making MacCready’s back jerk up again when he brushes that one perfect spot, deep inside. Then he finally pulls them out, leaving MacCready panting and empty. MacCready groans.

“One of these days,” Deacon says, as he pours more oil over his fingers, “I’m going to take that scarf of yours and tie your hands to the bedpost, and we’re going to see how long you can last like that.”

He says it casually, like he’s commenting on the price of tatoes at a market stall, and not slowly stroking oil over his cock. A bolt of arousal shoots through MacCready fast and hard, leaving his legs tingling. His cock jumps against his thigh. “Deacon, for god’s sake—“

“Oh, like that one, huh?” Deacon says, nonchalant, as he shifts forward.

“If I say yes, will it get you to fuck me some time this century?”

Deacon grins. He reaches across the bed with his free hand and snatches a pillow out of the pile below the headboard. He shoves it under MacCready’s hips, and then pushes his knees wider apart. 

When he finally sinks in, MacCready’s head tips back against the bed in a loud moan. God, it’s been so long since they’ve done this. MacCready hadn’t realized how much he was aching for it until he’d sprawled himself on the bed that afternoon and let his thoughts drift as he trailed a hand down his stomach. 

They don’t fuck like this often. Sure, they fuck often, _really_ often, just not… not like this. Walking for eight or nine hours with a sore ass isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, and these days they travel constantly—sometimes together, sometimes apart. The rare days they have to themselves in their own house when one or the other of them isn’t completely exhausted grow fewer and further between every week. 

But tonight? Tonight they’d carved out for themselves, so maybe MacCready can’t really be blamed for being eager. Because the feeling of Deacon bottoming out inside of him, settling on his forearms right above him, his chest pressing against MacCready’s with every uneven, shaky breath? Yeah, this was worth the wait. 

“Tell me what you thought about,” Deacon says, pulling out slowly and then sliding in again, making MacCready gasp. “Today, when you were waiting.”

“Things we can’t do,” MacCready rasps out. One of his knees splays to the side on the bed, and he curls the other over Deacon’s hip. 

“Tell me anyway,” Deacon says. He drives forward again, harder this time.

“Oh god, I—yes, _fuck_.” MacCready grabs the back of Deacon’s neck, clinging. “I—I thought of taking you to the alley. Getting on my knees.”

“Oh shit,” Deacon groans. He’s starting to find a rhythm now, slick and hot between MacCready’s legs. A perfect, heady slide that makes MacCready hiss.

“Then I thought about you— _ahh_ —fucking me there,” MacCready says, swallowing against his dry throat, breathless. “Pushing my face into the wall, just shoving my pants down far enough, and yours…”

Deacon’s hips snap forward, surprising both of them, and it takes him a second to find his rhythm again. MacCready looks up, and he catches Deacon’s expression before it smoothes out— _want_ , wide-eyed and burning, sudden and intense. MacCready tightens his hand on the back of Deacon’s neck.

“You—you’d be into that?” MacCready breathes. 

“You fantasizing about me? Always,” Deacon says, twisting a little on the next thrust, startling a moan out of MacCready.

“I meant—”

“I know,” Deacon says. His eyes trail slowly up to meet MacCready’s, like he’s dragging them there. He gives a self-conscious little breath of a laugh, slowing his hips for a moment. “You gotta understand, Bobby, the kinkiest fantasy I’ve got right now is holding your hand in public. Give a guy a break.”

He says it like a joke. He means it like an oath. _If things were different. If it was safer. If I could._ A hundred half-formed apologies, a hundred conversations they’ve started and stopped. Not here. Not tonight. MacCready knows, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

So in answer, he leans up on his elbow and claims Deacon’s lips in a heated kiss. Deacon responds immediately, desperate, needy. Genuine.

When MacCready slips his tongue along the roof of Deacon’s mouth, Deacon finally thrusts his cock forward again, hitting deep. MacCready moans against his mouth. He’s leaking onto his stomach, hard and hot, aching to be touched. 

“Deacon—I need—”

“Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” Deacon murmurs. Oh, god. MacCready scrabbles to grab his shoulder as Deacon reaches for his dick. He tries not to whimper when Deacon’s hand, still slick, closes around the shaft, giving him a long, firm stroke.

“God, yes,” MacCready says. Deacon’s other hand clamps down tight on MacCready’s hip, fucking into him faster now. MacCready’s head rolls back into the quilt as he loses himself in the dual friction, the perfect pressure of Deacon’s fist, the perfect drag of his cock.

Deacon leans down to mouth a kiss against MacCready’s throat, then his jaw. He works MacCready’s cock in time with his own hips, and MacCready keeps him bent low with the hand on his neck. 

“You’re so—fuck—“ Deacon’s thrusts grow a little more erratic. He pants against MacCready’s neck, leaving open-mouthed, shallow kisses over his skin. “I’m close.”

MacCready reaches blindly for the hand gripping his waist. He tugs it free and threads his fingers through Deacon’s, and Deacon makes a broken sound and presses his forehead to MacCready’s. 

“Yeah, come on,” MacCready says, low and soft. “Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck,” Deacon grounds out. He makes a few more heavy, rough thrusts, and then tenses, coming with a long groan, his hand going still around MacCready’s cock. MacCready holds him through it, stroking his neck. Deacon slowly turns his head, catching MacCready’s lips in a sloppy kiss, and then murmuring, “Your turn.”

It doesn’t take much. Deacon’s fingers stay tangled with MacCready’s against the quilt as his free hand pumps MacCready’s cock again. MacCready bucks up mindlessly into his grip, his skin flushing hot all over. He opens his eyes as he trembles right on the edge. He finds Deacon watching him with an unguarded expression, awed and fond. MacCready grinds out his name and comes all over his hand. 

They lay together for a moment, Deacon leaning heavily into MacCready’s chest, and trade lazy kisses back and forth. MacCready keeps him close with the leg still curled over his hip, the both of them ignoring the mess between them. 

“So, everything you wanted?” Deacon says quietly after a moment, leaning back to look at MacCready.

MacCready slides his fingers over Deacon’s shoulder. “You shot down the wall sex, but otherwise…”

Deacon laughs softly. “You’re right, if you’re into broken bones, who am I to stand in your way?”

MacCready rolls his eyes, but as Deacon starts to push off of him, he tightens his hand again. “Hey.”

Deacon furrows his brow, so MacCready levers himself up again to steal a slow, warm kiss. “Thank you. For this.”

Deacon smiles. He leans their foreheads together again, for a moment. “My pleasure. As you can see.” Then he steals a kiss of his own, and sits up. “But now that you’ve had your wish fulfilled can I please take off these stupid pants?”

MacCready laughs. “All right, fine, ruin the moment.”

“We can have a much better moment when I’m naked.”

“Again? Dang, now who’s eager?”

“For you? Always.” Deacon abandons his pants halfway down his thighs to lean down awkwardly for another kiss. “To be out of these pants? Also always.”

MacCready grins. “One of these days, when you’re least expecting it, I’m going to steal these and wear them and then you’ll see.”

Deacon drags his teeth over his lower lip. “Promise?”

MacCready laughs, and smiles, and sits up to pull Deacon in again, right between his knees as he sits on the edge of the bed. He pushes the pants the rest of the way down himself, and then presses his lips below Deacon’s navel. Deacon cards a hand through his hair. And for a long moment, they just hold each other, bare and content, with nothing left between them. MacCready holds on as long as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to write from Mac's perspective more often, this was too much fun. I will shoehorn in my headcanons about Deacon's natural accent anywhere I can. And that MacCready has learned, through careful and sexy study, to read Deacon much better than Deacon even realizes. God I love these two.
> 
> Anyway, you can find me on tumblr (@electricshoebox) or twitter (@galaxiesgone).


End file.
